I saw a woman and her girl walking through the alley. They both wore wide-brimmed hats. The smaller had a proper coat with collar and buttons. It was a beautiful periwinkle. Her mother's was a beige and very proper as well. They walked near the wall to let the car go by. The mother's right arm draped across the daughter's back. Her hand guided her shoulder.

Fern: i know them.

God speaks to me.

I believe.

The door bell rang.

He has spoken. The He I do not know of. Who I believe in only some days. Whose letter I wonder about--and if it waits at the bottom of a blue bin on the corner of California and Diversity.

He challenges me by submitting his thoughts without patience and expects the receiver to adhere to patience, and solely.

Please listen to me. Tell me I am good. Tell me what I did is great.
I have no time for you.
Solipsist.

The world is connected and connecting and by 'world' it is mine and those who share it with me: Sam, asleep on the floor behind me; Dan, asleep on the couch across from me--behind the wall; and John, asleep in the room next to me, behind the other wall. A dear and great friend had said the other night, your presence is felt in this room. This 5x5 white writer's room. This is where the next great american novel will be written. With an attic to myself--it is not there, but in this small space where I would like to write. One window encased by symmetrical rows of green leaves, an empty lot of weeds, trees, and dirt across the road, and a highway where a constant flow of vehicles create ocean sounds.

I searched for him last night, him and his wife. Her photos were still the same. The same two that I've already got stored and can look at anytime. For all I have to do is close my eyes or concentrate hard enough and there are blue eyes, hoop earrings, and a pensive look staring off. For him, the same. A mug shot. I remember the first time he had sent it. Why would he send this? A mug shot for someone who barely knew him. Yet, intrigued, correspondence continued.

The wife had told me that she had fallen back in love with him, but at that moment, she was not--and not to worry. She was having another man over, someone who she has been dating, and she felt the need to tell me--so that I would have known that all the while, I had known.

It is easy to become lost in secrets and winding stairwells of passages filled with only bits of information. This is a story that is already enough without the knowing of what was in the past.

I could leave them and be gone but what would He do? How would my betrayal effect Korah? He would not be able to continue by himself--they need me. I cannot go.

"My mother used to read my journals when I was a girl. She approached me once about something I had written and I stopped writing because of it."

A love so great, so pure, destroyed--to be hung. Laying beside her and our future child. She told me I would never be alone. She is a cunt, a liar, a commitment betrayed.

I promise you. You will never be alone.

Did she write this while next to him? Asleep, his naked body coiled, the sheet of Shiva above their heads. Had she really betrayed his trust by only kissing another man beside him? Truly, that was enough to damage him so completely?

"I will marry you. I will divorce her. We are not married. She is not my wife. This institution of marriage is folly. We are signatures on a piece of paper, that is all. She wrote a prize-winning poem about our court date. Crash and Leave. It is well to be known that she hates me--and I, her."

In his phone, he had her as K-- the cunt.

To have an expectation fulfill itself leaves no room for surprise--and in its wake, a reel of disappointment.

I know a man who says things but does not follow through, yet I hold on to hope that this time--and the next time, he will.

I'm having difficulty deciphering whether I'm patient and loyal or plain and pathetic.

Jeff sent me this, Post Reject.  Rejects from Post Secret.

Aikido/Capoeira/Jiu-Jitsu

I've been researching various martial arts techniques in hopes of taking classes starting Summer or Fall 09.  This six year old girl chokes this boy at a Jiu-Jitsu Tourney.  I'm thinking Aikido or Capoeira.  

Capoeira is an Afro-Brazilian martial art, game, and culture created by enslaved Africans in Brazil during the 16th Century. Participants form a roda (circle) and take turns playing instruments, singing, and sparring in pairs in the center of the circle. The game is marked by fluid acrobatic play, feints, subterfuge, and extensive use of groundwork, as well as sweeps, kicks, and headbutts. Throughout the game, a player must avoid a sweep, trip, kick, or head butt that may knock him or her on the floor. Less frequently-used techniques include elbow-strikes, slaps, punches, and body-throws. Capoeira has evolved from one main form, known as "Capoeira Angola", into two other forms known as "Capoeira Regional", and the ever-evolving "Capoeira Contemporânea"  (taken from Chang's Martial Arts website.  http://www.changsmartialarts.com/home)

Aikido, is a Japanese martial art developed by Morihei Ueshiba as a synthesis of his martial studies, philosophy, and religious beliefs. Aikido is often translated as "the Way of unifying (with) life energy" or as "the Way of harmonious spirit." Ueshiba's goal was to create an art practitioners could use to defend themselves while also protecting their attacker from injury.

Aikido is primarily a grappling art in which attacks are neutralised with various types of throws or joint locks. Aikido techniques are intended to be implemented after first blending with the motion of the attacker, so that the defender may redirect the attacker's momentum without directly opposing it, thus using minimum effort.  (http://www.changsmartialarts.com/home)

Holy Shiz with a Shiz Nizzle Hiz

Maria sent me this...

Anarchal Effervescence

Have you ever felt like becoming an Anarchist
but just didn't have the gumption?
Didn't really know what it was all about?

Totalitarian Themed reads.

Read in succession:

V for Vendetta, Alan Moore
Fahrenheit 451, Ray Bradbury
The Giver, Lois Lowry
Anthem, Ayn Rand
1984, George Orwell
Brave New World, Aldous Huckley

and any and all Kurt Vonnegut, but mainly
Welcome to the Monkeyhouse
specifically shorts: Euphio Question, Barnhouse Effect

The only book I have yet to read is Huxley's. Just finished 451 last night, V for Vendetta the night before. I will write separate posts for each of those, as they are most deserving. Bradbury blows my mind--the book always has--and this was my first time with Moore, but holy fucking shit (pardon my language) but jesus christ is it the most fantastic word and picture orgy I've ever experienced.

My dad took me out to dinner last Wednesday night and he laughed at me, then said,

"Chess. You're anarchal."

Silence on my part.

"You're beliefs and ideals are centered around anarchy."

Silence on my part.

"Figures you're my daughter." "I'm proud of you."


Then he told me that though he supports my beliefs, I will need a real job to sustain myself.
That's why I'm writing a comic.

Okay. READ V FOR VENDETTA and FAHRENHEIT 451 and anything else you fiction mongers enjoy. Blast off! Next on the list is A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius.





The book is better, far better--the ideals portrayed at the ending are completely lacking in the movie...but for those of you who enjoy the stimulation by millions of half-second clips all jumbled in front of you... the movie is still riveting. Say riveting in an accent for deserved
emphasis.